


How Like A Winter

by Canon_Is_Relative



Series: Winter's Child [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A private case takes an unexpectedly dangerous turn, taking Sherlock to Russia and out of contact with his family for five days. On his return Sherlock grapples with feeling that the life he leads as the world's only consulting detective is at odds with the life he has chosen as John's husband and Calvin's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Like A Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Winter’s Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/270281) by [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist). 



> Operates in the Winter's Child 'verse when Calvin is seven years old. This begins a 2- or 3-part story arc that will be picked up by ImpishTubist.

_-Present-_

John woke to a cold hand on his shoulder and roused slowly, fighting through a tangled web of exhaustion and bad dreams. And then...

"Hello, John."

The words, spoken against his ear, set the world right again. Set his lips in a smile before he'd opened his eyes. Sherlock was kissing him, his frostbitten fingers settling against his throat, sending shivers racing over his skin.

"Daddy?"

Sherlock hummed against John's lips and broke away to open his arms to Calvin.

They had fallen sleep together on the couch, Cal curled up in front of John to watch the forbidden late-night telly shows he loved so much. It was well past midnight, and a school night, but John had decided he didn't much care. It was the fifth night since Sherlock was supposed to be home and no word from him. Having his son pressed close against him helped keep the nightmares at bay. But pretending all was well for Calvin's sake was wearing him down. And now...

 _"Daddy!"_ the seven-year-old cried again, showering kisses on his father's cheek, as _"Sherlock!"_ John breathed in disbelief, pulling him roughly close, burying his face in his neck, breathing him in.

John didn't even realize what he was doing, digging into his pocket, until Sherlock's hand stilled his frantic groping for his phone. "I've already texted Lestrade."

"Where were you?" John's voice was barely above a whisper.

Calvin stilled between them, hearing John's tone, and Sherlock shook his head fractionally, turning all his attention to their son, asking what on Earth he was doing, sleeping on the couch so far past his bedtime. Calvin relaxed and chattered on about how _Papa had said, Let's watch one more show,_ and _Papa had said this,_ and _Papa had said that,_ and _Where had daddy been,_ and _Pete's family was getting a dog so why couldn't they?_

John didn't take his arms from around Sherlock nor his eyes from his face, fearing to blink lest he should disappear and John wake up to find his nightmares realised.

 _He's alive, he's alive, thank bloody Christ, he's alive._

\-------------------------------------------  
 _-Two weeks ago-_

"She's still insisting her son was kidnapped?"

Sherlock's impatient sigh was answer enough. John could just see the expression on his face, the roll of his eyes and set of his jaw, and smiled to himself. Adjusting his phone between his chin and shoulder, he stuck his hands back into the scalding water, continuing with the dishes.

"I've hardly had a moment's peace since I got here, she's been calling me every hour for news. Luckily this won't take long, I've already traced him to Kashin." Another weary sigh. "The boy is twenty-four. Quite old enough to be making life decisions without consulting his mother. Not that I expect her to listen to reason."

John rinsed a handful of forks, thinking his words over before he said them. "If it was Cal who'd gone missing--"

"If Cal went missing I wouldn't need to hire a detective."

John snorted. "True enough."

Sherlock's voice was softer as he replied. "And in any event, I don't think that I--that either of us--would ever do anything to drive him off. He will know that he may do as he pleases without fear of reproof from us. ...right?"

John sighed, drying his hands, cradling the phone fondly against his cheek. "Right. He'll grow up to know that he can do no wrong in our eyes, and certainly will never feel called to run off to Russia to escape us."

John could just _see_ Sherlock's brisk nod. His, _Of course, I'm glad we agree,_ nod, and his heart twinged in his chest. God he was pathetic. He missed his husband. Five days, was it really only five days? Five days was far too long.

"John?"

"Mm."

"You're missing me."

John huffed a laugh, grinning broadly. "How'd you know?"

"I always know."

"Yeah, guess you do. Hurry home, yeah? My life is awfully dull without you. And Calvin wants help with his performance piece, and he's moved a bit beyond what I can help him with."

"You mean he can now find middle C on his own?"

"Oh, shut up."

Sherlock laughed, but fell silent after a moment. It sounded windy, where he was. Windy and cold. And far away. John sighed. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'll be home soon. Expect me by the thirteenth, there's a plane I intend to catch. I'll be in Heathrow by mid afternoon."

"All right, then. I'll tell Calvin. Oh, if you can, call back in a few hours when he's home from school, he's got some news to tell you."

"Is it about the school play?"

"Of course it is, but you'll have to act surprised."

"I will. I'll call tonight, after I've arrived in Borovichi.

"All right." John sighed heavily, sitting down in his chair. "We'll talk to you later, then."

"Mm."

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Love you, hm?"

"I know you do."

"Good."

\---

 _Will be gone longer than expected. Love to Cal. SH_

And that was it. The day before he was supposed to be home, just that one line of text, and then Sherlock's phone went dead.

John called Lestrade, who reported something similar. It took a lot of prodding from John but he finally forwarded on his text from Sherlock.

 _Don't let John worry. Look after Calvin. In some danger. SH_

\---

Cups of tea gone stone cold clenched between hands that ache with inaction. Shoulders hunched, voices hushed.

"Mycroft flew out there himself this morning."

"Jesus." Greg glanced at John, read the hopelessness in his eyes. Mycroft doing legwork--not a good sign. "But if anyone can find him, it's My--"

"I know that, Greg--"

John sounded about to lose it and as Greg reached for his shoulder there was a rustle in the doorway. He turned smoothly, trying to block Cal's view of his father's red eyes and haggard face. "Hey, Sport!"

John's head snapped up, peering around Lestrade to stare blankly at his son. "Calvin I thought you were doing your homework."

Cal shifted his weight and looked between them. "What are you guys talking about?"

Greg shook his head. "Nothing, bud. Just something for your dad's case."

Fear flickered behind the boy's eyes. "Where is he?"

"I've _told_ you," John snapped, "he's in Russia and he's _busy_ and no we can't call him."

Greg squeezed his shoulder, murmuring under his breath, "Easy, John."

John shook him off and turned to dump his cold tea down the sink, not looking at either of them. "Dad will be back as soon as he's done working. Now would you go do your homework and give me five minutes' peace?"

Calvin vanished without another word and John gripped the edge of the counter, staring into the sink, watching his tea swirling slowly down the drain. Stepping up beside him, Greg saw that he was shaking.

"He'll never forgive me for lying to him like this."

"He will. Because you're not lying. Sherlock is going to come back." Greg covered John's hand with his own, feeling sick.

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know that he won't."

John's laugh skittered up the scale, near-hysterical. "How many times have we done this, Greg? Next you'll tell me that I need to stay strong for Cal, that I'm scaring him, that I have to carry on and have faith in the fucking idiot I married. Right? Isn't that how this goes?"

Greg had nothing to say to that, so he didn't try. Instead he found himself doing what he'd never done for John before; something he'd always reserved for Sherlock in his darkest moments. He pushed his hand through John's short hair, pulling him close to press his lips to John's temple, saying gruffly, "It'll be all right, sunshine. I've got you."

\---------------------------

 _-Present-_

Calvin fell asleep shortly after they all went to bed.

Once asleep he was unmovable, a dead weight in between them, a little sliver of a human being that filled up so much space in their lives but somehow, taking after Sherlock, took up almost no space in bed. Sherlock was stroking his hair, eyes fixed on his face, watching his eyelids twitch as he dreamed. John had his arm across them both, palm pressed to the small of Sherlock's back, his own eyes locked on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," he said after a long time. "What happened? Where were you?"

"I was...far away. It doesn't matter. I'm back."

"No, Sherlock. It does matter. I thought--"

"That I was dead. Yes. I am sorry. I didn't mean to be away so long."

"What happened to your phone?"

"I had to get rid of it. They were tracking me."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

Sherlock finally looked up and met his eyes. They were sunken and dark, he seemed to have aged ten years in two weeks. His voice was flat. "I'm so sorry, John."

John lifted himself up on his elbow to look at him over Calvin's head. His whole being ached to see Sherlock so defeated. He stroked Sherlock's face, watching his eyes flutter closed, feeling his stuttered exhale against his palm.

"I should give this up."

John's jaw went slack, a soft almost-laugh escaping him. "You can't be serious."

Sherlock shook his head, eyes still closed. "Look what I've done to the both of you."

John allowed the flicker of hope to lick up his ribs and settle in his chest, but encouraged it no further. He didn't trust his voice, so he leaned across Calvin to brush his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes flew open, his hand was suddenly fisted in the front of John's shirt, pulling him closer and kissing him hard.

"Sherlock... _Sherlock._ " John pulled away, breathing hard. He glanced down at their sleeping son. "Not here."

\---

With one ear John was listening for any sign of movement from their bedroom, half expecting Calvin to wake and come stumbling down the stairs on finding himself alone in his fathers' room.

But with everything else he was focused on Sherlock. Kissing him as though the only way he knew to get oxygen into his own lungs was the draw it straight from Sherlock's. And his husband was devouring him in turn, his lips and hands as fierce and demanding as if...

 _...as if he wanted me._

And yes, that's a years-old--almost _decades_ -old--sore spot, and yes he's got past it. Yes he knows that Sherlock loves him and wants him in every way that he is capable of. But still...

...oh, God, still...

" _God_ you're the most..." John heard his own voice, a ragged gasp against stubbled skin, Sherlock's jaw scraping his lips. "...the most....beautiful...fuck, Sherlock, thought I'd never--"

Sherlock cut him off with a bruising kiss, his nimble fingers slipping beneath the elastic of John's sleep pants. He rocked John against him with his hands curled around his arse, fingers digging into his flesh, harsh and demanding and perfect. John whimpered into his mouth and held on to Sherlock's bony hips.

It took several minutes to realise that the sounds Sherlock was letting slip past his lips were actual _words_ , and even then John almost didn't let himself believe it.

"...missed you so much...didn't know if I'd make it...couldn't bear it, can't ever leave you again...can't leave Calvin...Oh, God, John..."

"Shh," he pressed his palms to Sherlock's cheeks, trying to still his frantic movement, trying to ground them both. "I'm here. Calvin's here. You're home. We're together."

Sherlock's response was to wrap his arms around John, hands sliding down his back to curl around his thighs and then he was lifting John up, settling him on the countertop, pulling his shirt up and off him and...

...John groaned and leaned back on his hands as Sherlock began cataloging him. Lips, tongue and teeth made their way across his skin, surveying, claiming and reclaiming every inch of him; Sherlock was nothing if not thorough. Over the years they'd found their ways to make this work. And when Sherlock decided that he needed to reacquaint himself with every inch of John's body, John no longer felt guilty for surrendering himself to the fantasy that it was because Sherlock desired him; because Sherlock wanted him, sexually, as much as John did him. John pushed shaking fingers through Sherlock's dirty hair, encouraging him with a low, greedy hum in the back of his throat as Sherlock ventured lower, sucking on the patch of skin just over his left hip that was his--both of their--particular favourite. John whimpered and arched his back, breathing raggedly through his nose. Sherlock growled his approval, thumbs hooking under the waist of John's pyjamas.

\---

Collapsed on the kitchen floor, his back against the cupboards, head on Sherlock's shoulder, the tremors chasing through John's body transitioned smoothly from the aftershocks of pleasure to a renewal of the painful waves of dread that had rocked him to sleep the past five nights. He turned to press his face to Sherlock's neck, kissing him and hoping that Sherlock wouldn't feel him trembling.

"There's no question," Sherlock said at last into the heavy silence. "I have to change the way I operate. This is unacceptable."

John opened his mouth to argue, but couldn't find a single word. He shook his head slowly, nose bumping Sherlock's shoulder.

"I have been untenably selfish, taking risks where none are warranted. I intend to give that up."

"But," John's voice cracked and he licked his lips. "The work, Sherlock. You love it, you _live_ for it."

"I _live_ for you and Calvin." John blinked at his sharp reply, pulling away to look at him. "And I will have my research, and my experiments. There are things I've sorely neglected; I haven't published anything since Calvin was born." Sherlock looked steadily back at him, then lifted one long hand to stroke John's cheek. "That's enough for me."

John closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock's touch. "I'd never ask you to do that."

"You don't have to."

"You can't just change like that."

"Why?" Sherlock dropped his hand from John's face, and when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was glaring at him. "Do you doubt my desire to do what's best for my family, or simply my ability?"

John took both of Sherlock's trembling hands in his, shaking his head. "Neither, love. I don't doubt you, I never have. You know that."

"What is this, then?"

"This is..." John blinked, looking down at their hands, rubbing his thumb along Sherlock's ring. "I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid to see you get bored."

"I won't let that happen." Sherlock's voice was firm. He had decided. Case closed.

 _All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots._ John felt a cold twist of fear in his chest. The gun was locked away, up in their room, the bullet holes in the wall covered over with a reproduction of the fake Vermeer. But they were still there. The bathroom cupboard was stocked with nicotine patches, and John knew there was a sealed pack of cigarettes on the top shelf of their closet. Sherlock hadn't needed either in years, but they were still there. What else might be lurking, gone but not forgotten, waiting to take advantage of Sherlock's idle hands?

He let the silence between them stretch out until the creaks and groans and nightly noises of 221B Baker Street filled his ears like a familiar symphony. He didn't want anything to change. He wanted everything to change. He couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock trying to change.

His legs had gone numb and his shoulder was throbbing before he looked up again. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling steadily. Despite his discomfort and the unforgiving tile on the floor, he decided to stay there a little longer, not to disturb him just yet. He could give them a few more minutes before anything had to change.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shakespeare's sonnet 97: [How Like a Winter Hath My Absence Been](http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet/97)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Event Horizon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/362746) by [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist)
  * [The Brink of Winter's End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/369487) by [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist)




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